


Those who chomp in the shadows

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack, Cthulhu Mythos, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: It's 1915 in Rhode Island and a man roams the city without knowing he's about to bump into two creatures who will become the well of nightmares of his future and his writing.THIS IS JUST CRACK
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Dagon & Hastur (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	Those who chomp in the shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Big, gigantic thanks to @noodlefrog who was amazing enough to beta this and encourage it, despite its obvious lack of any sense. 
> 
> The man is obviously, H.P. Lovecraft.

_ Far from the lively city core, there's a stretch of land, washed by a river that has carved stones for eons in its wake. Dark are the waters running in its stream and there have been those who assured in quieted whispers, to have caught glimpses of strange shadows splashing and diving under the gibbous moon. _

_ As the man walked through the squalid streets, shivering at the cold air of a ruthless winter, he remembered the words uttered in cavernous garrets and ventured to the coastline. _

_ There were two figures standing on the shore, anthropomorphic in their intention and yet incomprehensible to his mind. They reminded him of people with garments which functions were rather imprecise.  _

_ Someone else who had looked, someone with a better imagination perhaps, would have said  'ah, that one looks like an eel and the other one kind of looks like a frog ', but alas, this was not the case.  _

_ And so the man did nothing but stare. _

* * *

**Rhode Island, 1915**

There was a lot to be said about demons. More than what actually appeared in dark grimoires and old books scribbled with hasty letters in what was definitely not eco friendly parchment . 

And what was missing could've gone along the lines of  _ 'break hours available every third wednesday _ '. 

Hastur loathed breaks, more than he hated work. He actually quite liked his work, because he was a very bad demon and that was excellent in Hell's ledgers. 

"Where the fuck are we now, Dagon?" He asked with a voice that seemed not to follow the common rules of acoustics. Calling it a croak would've been merciful. And highly imprecise.

He waded to the shore, dragging the weight of a sodden trench coat that'd seen far better days in the hands of far better owners. The squelch-squelch of his boots kicked his whole irritation up a notch. His shoes were clean.  _ Clean _ . Disgusting. 

Dagon stood close, long hair drenching over scales. 

"No idea, but the food is good," she sort of muttered over pieces of an indistinct fish. "Lots of gristle."

Hastur flicked a preternaturally longue tongue and caught a grasshopper perched on a tree. Crunchy. It was not bad and well. At least this was not Louisiana as far as he could tell. Tons of liters of grime down his throat and he still couldn't scrap the pungent flavor of those frog legs he'd nibbled unaware a decade ago. Humans were far more wicked than he gave them credit for.

"Look," said Dagon.

"Wot?"

"Dinner's humping your shoe."

Hastur looked down to see a river frog, more like a-- a toad, headbutting his too-clean soles.

"C'mon, what are you waiting for? Chomp away!" Dagon said, now practically eviscerating her meal.

"It's a fucking frog."

"Your point being?"

Hastur was a Duke of Hell in his own disgraced right. He was cruel, vicious, and positively fetid. But even  _ he _ had standards. First point being, as progressive as he was, he was definitely not into self-vore. From atop his head, Elmer stared, pleased.

"My fucking point being it  _ is  _ a fucking frog."

Dagon shrugged. "You should get out of your head, Hastur. Nothing wrong with some palatable self introspection-- 'twas all in the last memo," she said now picking up an eel and flashing it to Hastur. "See?" She chomped the head off, rather enthusiastically, humming in approval. "I'm fucking delicious."

"Whatever. When do you want to start?"

"Can you stop thinking about work for a second? Sloth quotas aren't going to up themselves," Dagon bristled, and Hastur winced. 

She was right. After all, she was the Lord of the Files, and could make his future paperwork a trip to Heaven if she so pleased. She could even compel him to present Form 667-TR in relation to section 459(e), part III, line 26 regarding the disposal of body parts and he shivered. The last demon asked to do it, fifty years ago, was still trapped in the loop of  _ 'read the fine print'  _ in the boilerplate language and  _ 'deductibles and dependables: a balance'.  _ And well. Dagon was vicious sometimes.

"Right," he said.

"Relax, Hastur, something will appear."

He didn't doubt it. After all, if humans were known for one thing, it was for sticking their noses where they shouldn't. Specially the most stupid of their species. 

Demons called it luck. Angels called it free will. A human named Darwin, who now occupied some dungeon in sector C, third circle to the right, had called it natural selection. 

He was about to grunt some more because he could and he was miserable and he really would've prefered to be with Ligur, watching humans stub their same toe, twice, or losing one sock out of a pair, all good fun supplied by the department of Mild Inconveniences, when one of the bushes rustled.

"We got company," Dagon grinned, rotten teeth now festering with new meaty additions. 

Hastur sighed. 

He scented the air, trudging forward to the origin of the sound. When he got there, the human was gone.

"Well?" Asked Dagon.

"Will be easy to find him," Hastur said, picking up a book from the soil. "Tosser reeks hate-- 's fucking afraid of everything."

Dagon flicked her tongue. "Kind of an idiot, too." She smiled. "Sounds like we're going to have fun."

"That's the spirit," Hastur grinned, lighting a cigar with a soot covered finger.

"Fine then, let's pay him a visit."

* * *

_ Of all the horrors that can plague the human mind, lurking around corners veiled to the daylight, there's nothing more foul than the ones born out of the heart. _

_ After all, evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.  _

* * *

**London, the present**

Crowley was bored to his fangs. He watched Aziraphale placing a whole case of books under the  _ On Sale _ sign.  _ That _ caught his attention. Aziraphale almost never placed anything under the  _ On Sale _ sign. 

He grabbed one and flipped through the pages when he  _ ngkd _ in surprise.

"Hey, angel?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Er-- why do you have a book about my old bosses?" He flipped up his sunglasses. 

"What?"

"Here, look, it says Dagon and here--" rustle of pages, "here they mention a Hastur."

"Ah, well, they arrived today and I just finished with them."

Crowley parsed the obscure and dense prose, thanking Satan nobody talked like that anymore. 

"Is it at least useful research? Is it like-- some kind of demonology book?"

"No, I'm afraid it's absolute tosh." Aziraphale placed the last one on the table up the front of the store. "But if you're interested in the genre of cosmic horror, I could recommend a few writers who did a far better job."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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